


Ignite

by malacophilous (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Gender Issues, Kinks, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Sex Toys, Trans Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-24
Updated: 2011-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/malacophilous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is trans; Sherlock doesn't mind. John minds, until he realises precisely why Sherlock doesn't.  Written pre-S2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignite

‘Oh,’ said Sherlock when John explained that he was transgender, ‘all right.’  
  
‘That’s it?’ John demanded. ‘ _All right?_  No awkward questions, no wondering why I look so masculine despite my bone structure, no asking how long I’ve been taking hormone injections?’ He grimaced thankfully. ‘No experiments?’  
  
Sherlock shrugged. ‘It really doesn’t matter to me, John. Gender is a social construct. Whatever gender it is that you’ve decided you are, despite your sex, it’s fine.’  
  
‘I didn’t  _decide_ ,’ John grumbled for what felt like the millionth time in the past fifteen years. ‘I just am.’  
  
‘Right,’ Sherlock nodded. ‘And you  _know_ , as you’re the only person who’s yourself. I’m certainly not you, so who am I to judge?’  
  
‘You’re being surprisingly accepting about this,’ John said warily. ‘Did you fall off the wagon again?’  
  
Sherlock looked surprised. ‘What? No!’  
  
‘You’re quite sure?’  
  
‘Yes, John.’  
  
‘Let me see your pupils.’  
  
Sherlock shied like a startled mustang, rearing back from John’s interrogative eyes. ‘I’m fine, John, I’m not on anything other than coffee and nicotine patches.’  
  
‘Why are you taking this so calmly, like it’s normal?’  
  
Sherlock stared blankly at him. ‘Because it is.’  
  
John scoffed, self-deprecating. ‘Hardly. I’m a tiny percentage of a tiny percentage of the population, Sherlock. It’s statistically impossible for me to be normal.’  
  
‘Have you seen Mycroft’s pelvic bone?’  
  
This seemed to be a complete non-sequitur, but John was used to Sherlock’s flying leaps. ‘Not directly. I mean, I don’t know about you, but he’s got skin on whenever I see him.’  
  
‘Look again, next time he shows up,’ Sherlock advised, going back to arranging his files.  
  
  
‘John,’ said Sherlock the following morning, ‘do you want to have sex?’  
  
John choked on his tea. ‘What?’  
  
‘I’ve wondered,’ Sherlock added, ‘since we did kiss that one time.’  
  
(Sherlock was referring to a recent occasion when John had to perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on him, and upon regaining consciousness Sherlock had insisted that they carry on, ‘just in case.’ He’d been hit on the head with a very large rock moments before, however, and the butt of a rifle some hours before that, so John had written it off as the side-effects of a concussion.)  
  
‘That doesn’t count, Sherlock,’ John told him, rubbing his eyes. ‘That was an emergency.’  
  
‘I could create an emergency,’ Sherlock noted. ‘What sort of emergency would merit sex as my dying wish? What if,’ he said, his mouth curling as he considered the pros and cons of the idea, ‘I was on fire?’  
  
‘You can’t have sex while on fire.’  
  
‘I defy you,’ said Sherlock, frowning. ‘I defy you and your rampant cynicism.’  
  
John sighed. ‘Is this because I told you I’m trans? Do you have some kind of fetish or... or something?’  
  
‘I have a John Watson fetish,’ Sherlock agreed. ‘And since you were so honest about your gender, I feel that now I can be honest with you about my preferences.’ He frowned a little. ‘That  _is_  how it works, isn’t it?’  
  
‘Usually not this drastically,’ John said, shaking his head. ‘I’m not going to have sex with you just now, Sherlock, I’m still getting used to the idea that you know the truth about me.’  
  
‘Oh,’ said Sherlock, crestfallen. ‘All right.’  
  
As he left the kitchen, John called warningly after him, ‘And no setting yourself on fire! Third-degree burns are not sexy.’  
  
  
John woke up to find a sparkly purple dildo loitering politely on his nightstand.  
  
He went downstairs, the thing clutched in his fist, and waved it in Sherlock’s face. ‘What the hell is this?’  
  
‘It’s a dildo,’ Sherlock said blankly. ‘To be specific, a Tantus. I happen to like it.’  
  
John looked down at his hands, looking somewhat horrified. ‘Please God, tell me it’s been sterilised, I’ve got a papercut.’  
  
‘I see them as art,’ Sherlock laughed. ‘I don’t use them. Not personally.’  
  
‘Who does, then?’  
  
‘No one,’ said Sherlock, ‘yet.’  
  
And he got up, going into the kitchen and throwing his concentration headlong into his current experiment that lay sprawled across the counter, leaving John standing there with the dildo in his hands.  
  
  
It mocked him, there on the nightstand, pointing at the ceiling in purple salute. And John was frustrated, and frustration, for him, translated into arousal.  
  
John grabbed it, weighing it in his hand, getting a feel for the shape, the smooth silicone warming against his palm.  
  
Damn it.  _Damn_  it.  
  
John gave in.  
  
  
The next morning, there was another: white and iridescent, longer than the first, ramrod straight, carved with ridges and a raised head, but like the first it had a lip along the base for fitting it into a harness.  
  
‘You left me another one,’ John noted as they took a cab to Scotland Yard. ‘Why? Isn’t one enough?’  
  
‘I’ve got loads,’ Sherlock said with a little smile. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’  
  
John had, in fact, the night before, been very pleased. He fought down a blush. ‘Thanks... I think.’  
  
  
John was scrupulously quiet when he masturbated, self-conscious of his still-too-feminine noises, but when the orgasm hit him he whimpered, continuing to thrust with the ridged white toy until he shook so hard he lost his grip on it.  
  
  
On the third day, the new toy was massive and black, gently curved, with a sort of bulb on the end at a right angle that could function as either a useful handle or a strapless harness.  
  
‘You have a Feeldoe,’ he said to Sherlock, quietly, as they walked to the shops. ‘Interesting.’  
  
‘I like its shape,’ Sherlock explained. ‘Don’t you?’  
  
John found out that he did. It was  _huge_ , larger than any toy John had purchased for himself over the years, and the fullness was almost excruciatingly good. He realised only after the fact that he had been gasping all through the proceedings, biting his lip, screwing his eyes shut as he rocked to and fro, as he rode it, having wedged the toy against a pillow between his straddling legs.  
  
‘Please,’ he begged someone who wasn’t there, ‘God,  _yes, please...’_  
  
A hitching cry escaped him as he came, and he continued to ride it out, gritting his teeth, fists clenched and gathered up to his altered chest, bucking erratically as a second orgasm curled around him and shot through his body, leaving him breathless and spent, falling forwards and almost instantly asleep, the toy still inside him, the damp pillow crooked between his knees.  
  
  
He was fantastically, beautifully sore in the morning, and there was a very powerful, very shiny steel vibrator on his nightstand. When John switched it on experimentally, curious, it quivered silently in his hand, but the sensation went all the way up his arm, across his chest, suffusing across his body. He switched it off and went downstairs for breakfast.  
  
‘Thought you might want something a little smaller, after last night,’ said Sherlock idly as John did the crossword. ‘I don’t want to tire you out.’  
  
John huffed sceptically. ‘How do you know I’ve been using them, at all?’  
  
‘You come downstairs every morning looking well-rested, which rarely happens unless you’ve been over to Sarah’s. Your skin looks vibrant, your eyes are clear and your gait, at least this morning, is somewhat gingerly.’ Sherlock smiled. ‘You’ve been using them.’  
  
‘Glad you’re pleased,’ John said, trying his best to sound insincere.  
  
Sherlock sipped his tea. ‘I could say the same.’  
  
  
John could feel the hum of the vibrator in his skin, in the back of his throat, in his very  _bones_  as he held it against his cock, squirming, toes curling against the sheets beneath him. His back arched, his free hand pinching and twisting at one nipple (they had, thankfully, fully retained sensation after the surgery), moaning helplessly as each throb of his pulse against the little machine seemed to increase the feeling tenfold. And when the sixth ( _sixth_ , God!) orgasm took hold of him, wracking his frame, he cried out—a harsh, growling  _‘Fuck!’_  
  
  
The fifth morning there was a thin, red silicone anal plug, highly flexible and soft.  
  
‘You cursed last night,’ Sherlock noted. They were under a desolate pier, looking for evidence. ‘You rarely make noise. Was it good?’  
  
John turned away, ostensibly to turn over a stone to look under it, but in reality he was only blushing. ‘We’re working, Sherlock. This isn’t the time or place to discuss the matter.’  
  
Sherlock grinned briefly, then schooled his face back into a stern, observant expression.  
  
  
John slicked the plug with sesame body oil (his lube of choice; he found all other kinds unpleasantly sticky), and very gradually inserted it, biting his lip, relaxing into the fullness. And once it had settled, he took the purple toy from the first night, which was smaller than the others, and sheathed it in the usual place.  
  
The curve of the Tantus was perfect for hitting John’s g-spot, and the added stretch of the plug made it far better than it had been that first night—and yet still, still, John wanted more. He reached blindly across the nightstand, grabbing the vibrator, switching it on and holding it against his cock with one hand while with the other he fucked himself with the purple toy, clenching around the plug inside him.  
  
It took mere seconds for the orgasm to strike, and then another, and another, strobing through his body like a guttering techno beat, and as the fourth, the fifth, and on from there roared from him with surprising force, John gasped, and kicked, and  _screamed._  
  
  
The next morning, there was a slip of paper on the nightstand rather than a new toy.  _Hold your breath,_  it said in Sherlock’s untidy scrawl.  
  
‘Hold my breath?’ said John over breakfast (well, as he ate and Sherlock ignored the idea of breakfast).  
  
‘Trust me,’ Sherlock said, leaning across the table, eyes half-lidded and sly.  
  
  
John held his breath, the vibrator chugging away inside him as he stroked his cock with two slick fingers. When he felt the need for air, he would simply breathe in a little more, a little more, not breathing out again, not even a little, until his chest felt tight, his lungs felt fit to burst, his head swimming as the pleasure mounted exponentially, his eyes throbbing in his head. As his ears thundered with the sound of his pulse, he came, hips rising completely off the bed, a gush of clear ejaculate landing across the sheets as senseless, shaking hard, John finally exhaled with a delighted sob.  
  
  
There was nothing the next morning.  
  
‘Sherlock,’ said John, ‘you’re looking particularly flammable today.’  
  
Sherlock quirked a brow at him. ‘Am I?’  
  
‘In fact,’ John noted matter-of-factly, ‘you may even be on fire, already. Pity, that’s an excellent shirt.’  
  
‘It’s replaceable,’ said Sherlock, getting to his feet. ‘Would you like to see the rest of the collection?’  
  
  
Sherlock’s room was a hideous mess, and in one corner stood a gleaming curio cabinet fronted with frosted glass, phallic shapes just visible within.  
  
‘How,’ said John, ‘did you get that in here without Mrs Hudson noticing?’  
  
Sherlock shrugged. ‘I don’t care that she noticed. She was very complimentary on certain pieces.’  
  
John almost laughed. ‘How many do you have?’  
  
When Sherlock eyed him wickedly, John shivered. ‘Enough to keep you occupied.’  
  
There were over a hundred dildos, a score of plugs, two dozen vibrators, a collection of flails, the riding crop John had already seen (he hoped it hadn’t been used on a corpse recently), angora-lined cuffs for both wrists and ankles, what looked like a horse’s over-the-muzzle bridle, a posture collar, and a supple, burgundy leather harness for the strap-on attachments.  
  
‘Is this what privileged people do?’ John asked wonderingly, picking up a black suede flail and running its lashes over his fingers. ‘Buy copious amounts of sex toys and never use them?’  
  
Sherlock chuckled darkly. ‘I have been using some of them—on you. I plan to use more.’  
  
John felt a little dizzy, heat flaring beneath his ribs. ‘Please—I want more than that. If...’ he hesitated, feeling selfish, ‘if that’s all right.’  
  
‘Unfortunately,’ said Sherlock, glaring at his reflection in the mirror at the back of the cabinet, ‘I’m allergic to materials used in the manufacture of both latex and polyisoprene prophylactics. My hands, mouth and collection will have to suffice.’  
  
‘That’ll more than do,’ said John breathlessly.  
  
Sherlock looked down at John from his considerable height. ‘Shall I kiss you, then?’  
  
John laughed. ‘Sure. If you like.’  
  
‘I would.’  
  
It was glorious.  
  
‘Bed?’ John murmured against Sherlock’s lips, stumbling on a pile of books behind his foot.  
  
They navigated the clutter together, rolling onto to unmade bed, and John felt something crinkle under his back, and pulled the paper out from beneath him. ‘Corset lacing instructions?’  
  
‘Shhh,’ Sherlock quieted him with another kiss, unbuttoning John’s shirt.  
  
John tensed, nervous. ‘There’s scars, Sherlock.’  
  
Sherlock breathed out a short puff of air against the side of John’s neck as he kissed it, whispering, ‘Of course, and naturally they’ll be striking and lovely, just like the rest of you.’  
  
‘’M not lovely,’ John argued faintly, squirming as Sherlock paused to pinch one of his nipples through his half-unbuttoned shirt.  
  
‘Handsome, then.’  
  
John laughed, an amused breath before Sherlock parted his shirt fully, looking down at his chest. John bit his lip, anxiety crowding out the arousal for a moment. ‘Had to do it over twice,’ John said. ‘Cost me all my savings to get it put to rights, ‘s why I’m so bad-off now—’  
  
‘You,’ said Sherlock, talking over him firmly, ‘are the most stunning man I have ever seen, and every,’ he kissed him, ‘ _inch_  of you,’ and again, ‘is beautiful.’  
  
John sighed, a smile breaking across his face like dawn. ‘Thank you.’  
  
When they had stripped off (though Sherlock kept his trousers on, to John’s consternation), Sherlock kissed John’s forehead and asked, ‘Which toy do you want?’  
  
John looked lost, a small man adrift in the cavernous expanse of Sherlock’s bed. ‘God, there’s so many—I have no idea.’  
  
‘Large? Small?’  
  
‘I don’t know.’  
  
‘Any impact toys? Vibration?’  
  
‘ _I don’t know_ , Sherlock. I appreciate you asking my opinion, but I’m not exactly in a clear frame of mind just now.’  
  
Sherlock smirked. ‘Are you on fire?’  
  
John snorted, rolling his eyes even as his hips twitched off the bed eagerly. ‘Yes, Sherlock, I’m engulfed in flames. Save me.’  
  
‘I suppose,’ Sherlock wondered aloud, ‘as it’s an emergency, I’ll have to employ whatever tools I have on hand.’  
  
And speaking of which, there, suddenly, were Sherlock’s fingers, sliding up into the slick space between John’s thighs, the space that by all rights and legalities ought not to have been there, but Sherlock was touching him, a euphoric expression gracing his features, and for once John was entirely all right with the shape he was.  
  
Sherlock smiled down at him fondly, in a way that some would have described as romantic if they didn’t know him. John, however, knew that look: intense, all-consuming fascination, a level of interest so high it would drive Sherlock mad if he didn’t explore its possibilities to the fullest.  
  
John rolled his hips, clutching the edge of the mattress, trying to work his way farther down, to sheath Sherlock’s hand deeper inside him.  
  
‘Is this good?’ Sherlock asked, a little frown-line appearing between his brows. ‘Am I doing this properly? I’ve only seen diagrams. You seem distressed, are you well? Should I stop?’  
  
‘Shut up and frig me, damn it,’ John ground out, his teeth bared in a hedonistic snarl.  
  
Sherlock turned his hand palm-up, making a  _come hither_  gesture with the two fingers he had inside, and John cried out in delighted surprise, an upward-sweeping sound that broke off with a crack when it came dangerously close to soprano.  
  
‘Sorry,’ John gasped, regaining control of himself as Sherlock pulled his hand back just a little. ‘Sorry, I’ll be quiet.’  
  
Sherlock looked at him as if he was insane. ‘ _Why?_  That was beautiful. My cock leapt about a foot, didn’t you feel it against your thigh?’  
  
John shook his head, ignoring reason, determined to be embarrassed by himself. ‘’S girlish.’  
  
Sherlock kissed him soundly, fingers fluttering against that spot inside John like a trapped, frantic thing, making John moan and almost squeal into his mouth. When Sherlock pulled back, breathless, he growled, soft and rumbling against John’s throat, ‘I would not be doing this with a  _girl_ .’  
  
John blinked up at the ceiling, trying to focus his eyes as Sherlock’s hand, somehow, moved even faster, making the room blur and spin. ‘Are you gay, then?’  
  
Sherlock chuckled. ‘I’m  _yours._  There’s a difference.’  
  
‘Let me touch you,’ John demanded suddenly, trying to sit up. ‘I’m not going to fucking  _lie back_  and let you do all the work, we’re _equals_ —’  
  
Sherlock held him down with a gentle pressure against his sternum. ‘We aren’t.’  
  
John glowered at him, a sick, sinking feeling spiralling down his throat—had he misjudged Sherlock? Was he, despite his kind words...?  
  
‘I  _worship_  you,’ Sherlock explained, kissing his way down John’s firm chest, his abdomen, skirting his blond-fluffed mons to plant still more kisses along the joint of his hip and thigh. John could feel the breath ghosting across his skin as Sherlock spoke. ‘You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted. I’m not trying to be flattering—you know I’m terrible at that—it’s just facts.’ The tempo of his juddering fingers slowed at once to a leisurely, gentle caress, making John moan helplessly. ‘I’m good with facts, crap at everything else.’  
  
‘So you’re not ... not assuming I’m automatically a bottom, just because I’ve got—’  
  
‘A pocket instead of a magnifier? No. Not even a little.’  
  
John found himself laughing, an arm draped over his eyes. ‘God, Sherlock, never use euphemisms again.’  
  
Sherlock crooked his fingers sharply, and John stopped talking, clawing the sheets, his face twisted into a mask of excruciating pleasure. ‘I can go on like this for hours,’ Sherlock noted. ‘My hands are strong.’  
  
‘I can tell,’ John whispered, whimpering in the back of his throat; a high, rickety sound, but he didn’t care anymore. Pitching his voice wasn’t important anymore, hiding wasn’t important; with Sherlock, he was  _safe._  
  
‘I tried not to listen, these past few nights,’ Sherlock added, almost withdrawing his fingers, quickly, only to push them back in, with a third added, with tortuous slowness. ‘But your room’s just over mine, of course. It was difficult not to observe the results of my gifts. I wonder if I can make you scream, like this?’ He moved his fingers in a new, experimental way, flicking them one at a time, and John gasped, bucking. ‘I wonder if I could make you curse as beautifully as my toys have?’  
  
 _‘Sherlock—’_  
  
‘It has to be spontaneous,’ Sherlock added, looking thoughtful. ‘Don’t force it just to please me, I’ll know the difference.’ He scooted down on the bed, his face now level with his hand. ‘I’m going to suck your cock now, John, if you don’t mind.’  
  
 _‘Please!’_  
  
Sherlock complied, laying between John’s legs on his front so he didn’t have to support himself with one hand, and as he curled and thrust his fingers inside John, he spread his thighs farther apart, slid his tongue against John’s cock, circling it, flicking against it, up and down, from one side to the other and back.  
  
‘Oh God,’ John moaned, his pitch careening upwards into an embarrassing register but he didn’t care anymore, it didn’t matter, ‘oh _God_ , Sherlock,  _yes, just like that,_  don’t stop,  _**fuck!** ’_  and there, on the top-spin of that growled word, was when John’s voice cracked free from its artificial shell, and despite the years of hormones and practise it was still extraordinarily high, keening, wailing as he came. ‘ _Fuck_ , Sherlock, so  _good—God, yesyesyesyes—!’_  
  
‘That’s it,’ Sherlock purred as he moved back, sat up again to watch as John trembled and bucked beneath him, as Sherlock continued to swirl his fingers inside him, twisting them slowly. ‘Good boy, John, my gorgeous boy...’  
  
John noised incoherently as the spasms of pleasure started to fade, waving a hand at Sherlock, trying to make a recognisable gesture. ‘Nnn,’ he said articulately.  
  
Sherlock withdrew his fingers, licked them briefly, which made John squirm even more, despite the exhaustion that chased a powerful orgasm. ‘What is it, love? What do you need?’  
  
John held out his arms weakly for a moment, but they shook, and he let them drop. ‘You,’ he sighed.  
  
Sherlock crawled farther up the bed, lying on his side next to John, draping an arm around him. In an instant John moved quicker than he’d been able to mere moments before, wrapping his entire body around Sherlock’s, clinging to him, face buried in Sherlock’s chest.  
  
‘Thank you,’ he whispered, sounding near tears, but not in a sad way. ‘Thank you, thank you,  _thank_  you...’  
  
‘Shhh, it’s fine,’ Sherlock told him, stroking his hair. ‘Everything will be all right.’  
  
And just then, for the first time in all the countless occasions when someone had spoken those words to him, John believed, and was at peace.


End file.
